Ignoring One's Brother
by Bumblie Bee
Summary: When he was eleven Mycroft ignored Sherlock's yells and later regretted it. A Childfic!


**Ignoring One's Brother**

Mycroft was sitting at his desk, his school spread about him for revision when Sherlock had called from his bedroom. His voice was high, annoyingly so, and irritatingly whiney as it always was, weather Sherlock meant it to sound that way or not. Sherlock was always doing this though, disturbing him from his schoolwork, so Mycroft didn't look up, simply choosing to continue with the work in front of him instead.

It wasn't long before Sherlock called for a second time, his voice louder this time and the yell shorter, slightly more urgent than before. Mycroft huffed; did Sherlock simply not understand how important these upcoming exams were? Anyway, whenever his little brother called it was normally for some insignificant trivial matter, the sort of thing only amazing to a four year old. The last time Sherlock had called he had found a snail on the outside of his window and could see its mouth moving, much to his excitement.

"Myc-" Sherlock started again, only to be cut off by himself as his voice turned to a soft shriek of surprise immediately followed by a short series of heavy thumps, crashes and cracks. Mycroft lifted his head, his breathing halting as he listened carefully for any signs of life in the room next door. Just as he was about to tear himself away to see to the matter a childish 'owww' was heard from Sherlock's room and Mycroft turned back to his work with a tut.

It wasn't that he didn't care about his brother, because he truly did care, it was just that he had never received any sort of physical love or affection as a child, so why should Sherlock be any different? But it was obvious already that the four year old was different. He was strangely mature for a boy so young, despite the fact that his rounded features and his slightly unbalanced movements made him look like any other child. He was clever too, and it became obvious even before Sherlock's second birthday that he was very aware of what the people said around him. Even his choice of vocabulary exceeded that of many of the children in Mycroft's year, even if such words did sound strange spoken with his childish lisp.

"Mycwoft?" Came Sherlock's voice through the door as he gently tapped his fist against the wood. Mycroft frowned; he hadn't heard the four-year-old approaching. Sherlock could be eerily quiet when he wanted to be, sneaking up on people and hiding in places he knew he should never have been, but a majority of the time he could be heard all over the house, which really was saying something considering the size of their mansion.

"Go away, Sherlock" Said Mycroft in a considerably higher-pitched attempt of that strict voice Father had which Sherlock usually listened to. Father was the only person who could control Sherlock, although that was probably because the young boy had already learnt the somewhat painful consequences of disrespecting Father.

"But my head hurts, My" came the reply from the hall and Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was moaning again and his 's' syllable was sounding more like a 'th' than ever. It was infuriating, it really was, why could Sherlock not understand that his tongue did not touch his top teeth when saying an 's'? He didn't say his 'r's properly either, simply pronouncing a 'w' sound instead. Mother had said it was because he was young and would grow out of it. Father had simply said he was lazy.

"Go and ask Mummy for Calpol then" Insisted Mycroft, adding "I'm busy" when there was no reply to his first suggestion after a few seconds. He knew it was strange really, because Sherlock never was ill and even if he was he never mentioned it to anyone. He had probably been so caught up in whatever he had been yelling about in his room that he had forgotten to drink, only realising the headache a lack of fluids had caused when the tower of sorts he had made had collapsed. He could really become swept up in things, not noticing anything else when his mind was truly focused. Mycroft was honestly certain the entire population of the world could vanish and Sherlock would be none the wiser for several days.

"I can't" Sherlock whined, banging his little fist on the door again. The door wasn't locked and could easily have been opened with a twist of the handle but one of the merits for adults and complete nuisances if you were a child was the high door knobs in the old mansion, meaning that Sherlock couldn't open any of the doors even if he jumped.

"She'll be angwy with me" he whispered from the hall, his voice barely loud enough for Mycroft to hear. Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed, his annoyance at being disturbed momentarily forgotten.

"Why would she be angry with you?" he asked, confused because despite Sherlock's excitable and messy behaviour Mummy was rarely angry with him so long as he kept his destruction contained in his bedroom and certainly out of the formal lounge and the grand dining room. It wasn't like her to be angry at Sherlock for not drinking enough either, although she would probably shake her head at him in half-mocked despair.

"Becauthe I got blood on the carpet" he hissed, his voice even less audible than before.

"What?" demanded Mycroft, leaping up from his seat and rushing to his bedroom door, swinging it open to reveal the sorry looking image of his four year old brother standing in the hall with one starfish hand clamped over his eyebrow, a small trickle of blood leaking down his face. Mycroft felt his eyebrows shoot up as he grabbed his brother by the shoulders and hurrying him down the corridor towards the bathroom.

He closed the lid of the toilet and lifted the four-year-old onto it, passing him a flannel to clean away the blood. Thankfully the cut wasn't long although it was fairly deep and was still leaking the stick red liquid. Mycroft knelt down in front of his brother looking into his eyes, checking the size of his pupils as they had instructed in the medical guide he had found in his Father's study shortly after Sherlock had been born. When it became clear that Sherlock didn't seem to be suffering from a concussion he shifted the younger boy over and pulled him onto his lap, taking over the job of holding the flannel himself.

"What did you do?" he asked eventually, subconsciously rocking the smaller boy as they sat.

"It wathn't my fault!" Sherlock insisted instantly, tuning his head sharply to look up at his brother and smearing more blood over his forehead.

"It's an 's' Sherlock" he corrected absentmindedly. "Anyway, I didn't ask whose fault it was, only what happened" The younger boy thought for a moment before speaking, as if trying to think of a way out of the blame for whatever he had done.

"I climbed onto the top of the bookshelf but then I couldn't get down and I fell and then everything on the shelf fell too!" he explained, somewhat excitably. He spoke fast and the words merged together slightly but Mycroft could tell what his brother was saying, although he doubted many others would be able to.

"Do you know what you hit your head on?" he enquired as he shifted Sherlock from his lap and opened the cleaning supplies cupboard under the sink. Sherlock shook his head silently and then ran from the room, flinging the door on his way so that his hit the stopper with a twang. Mycroft found the four-year-old in his room, looking closely at the little table beside his now shelf-less bookshelf.

"It was the table" Said Sherlock proudly, pointing with one hand to the cluttered writing desk and holding the flannel to his head with the other. "It has blood on it, look!" The elder Holmes brother bent over the wooden surface, examining the small smudge of blood on the edge. He nodded at his brother before giving it a smart wipe with the cleaning cloth he held.

True to Sherlock's words there really were a number of drying red drips on the carpet in both his bedroom and the hall along with numerous smudges on his own bedroom door where Sherlock had demanded entry. The blood came off the wood with little fuss but the stains on the carpet were stubborn and eventually he simply sprayed them with carpet cleaner and left them to soak.

Back in the bathroom and Sherlock was examining the cut on his head in the mirror, having climbed up onto the unit to see. The bleeding had slowed but not stopped and the skin around it was beginning to bruise. Mycroft sighed, knowing he had no other option but to take Sherlock to Mummy, as it was becoming evident that he couldn't help his baby brother on his own.

"Come on" Mycroft announced, holding out his arms to lift his incredible light brother back to the floor. Sherlock ignored the offered help purely out of stubbornness and jumped off the unit, landing like a crouched cat on the tiles, one hand still clutching the red-stained flannel to his head. Mycroft tutted as he had seen his mother do countless times before when the youngest Holmes was reckless and Sherlock grinned cheekily up at him in response.

"Where we goin'" he asked wearily as he followed his brother out of the bathroom and down the stairs, jumping down every step and not even bothering to hold onto the handrail in case he fell. He paused about halfway down, finally catching onto where Mycroft was taking him. Hearing the lack of footsteps behind him Mycroft stopped too, looking up questionably at his brother.

"She'll be angwy" Sherlock muttered in explanation, letting the hand holding the cloth drop to his side. Mycroft sighed, walking back up the stairs and taking one of his brother's bloodied hands in his own larger ones. Sherlock stared up at him, his tiny, blue-grey eyes filled with worry at the thought of telling his mother what he had done.

"She won't be" he insisted, grinning slightly when he caught sight of Sherlock's disbelieving expression. "Anyway, we could always tell her it was my fault?" he offered, pulling his younger brother onto his hip with some difficulty. Sherlock nodded silently and let himself be carried down the stairs towards his parents.

"My?" asked Sherlock sleepily some time later as they drove back form the doctor's surgery, Sherlock with a stark white pad stuck to his forehead to cover the stiches underneath. He rubbed at it absentmindedly, obviously irritated by the cut. Mycroft reached over and batted the tiny hand away, being careful not to touch his brother's sore head himself. He made a 'hmm' noise to indicate he was listening and waited for Sherlock to continue.

"It _wath_ your fault" he mumbled, his eyes heavy and his pronunciation even worse than normal. He had been given pain medication for his head but that along with the remaining headache was making him sleepy.

"What was?" Mycroft asked, confused by his brother for the second time that day.

"That I thlipped" he said simply. Mycroft glanced meaningfully over at the four-year-old who glared back grumpily "_Sl_ipped" he corrected himself, completely over pronouncing on purpose. The elder Holmes nodded, finally letting what Sherlock had said sink in. How could the fall have been his fault? He was in his room the whole time, trying to do the revision he still had not done because he had been disturbed by Sherlock's shouting in his bedroom and the fall at the time. "You called for me" he admitted eventually, realising what Sherlock had meant.

"I was thtuck and you didn't help me!" The four-year-old said accusingly, pouting as much as his sleepiness would let him. Mycroft didn't reply, ashamed by his lack of concern for Sherlock at the time. He had been selfish and chosen his schoolwork over his little brother, over the little boy who relied on him for help. He looked back as his brother who had flopped over in his car seat, his head resting on the edge and the white patch stark against his darkening curls.

"Sherlock?" he asked as they finally pulled up the long drive, the car darkening as they left the street-lit road.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry for ignoring you" he admitted, watching his brother carefully through the darkness. Sherlock cracked open his eyes, his head rolling against the car seat as he looked up. He smiled wearily, his heavy eyes slowly focusing on his big brother. "'s ok" he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred with sleep as he reached out and took Mycroft's chubby hand in his own. "I wath never weally angwy with you anyway" he admitted, his eyes drifting shut as sleep finally claimed him, safe in his brother's arms.

**Author's Note**

So, I just sat down and wrote this since I got back from watching the airshow today and it is now past midnight so I need to post this. I'm not sure how it turned out but I hope you like it and please review if you do!

Also if you find Sherlock's speech annoying please do say and I will change it. Bearing in mind he is four and Mycroft is eleven.

**EDIT 30****th**** June 1012**

I didn't change much, only clearing up the mistakes and improving some of the text. Also I have made both boys a year older because 1) The exams I had originaly planned to make Mycroft be taking was his entrance exams for senior school, which would make him eleven not ten if his birthday is in February, and 2) after a nice review I got explain about children and lisps I wanted to make Sherlock a year older so he would be four when most children could make an 's' sound :)

Hope you enjoyed,

Bethany x


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